


Breaking Storm

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: First Kiss, Kansas, M/M, Road Trips, Thunder and Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen





	Breaking Storm

Bruce Wayne tries to stretch his legs and fails. Grumbling, he shifts in his seat. Of _course_ Clark Kent had to rent an economy car with no leg space for this jaunt across Kansas. The air conditioning is on the fritz, and the July heat is stifling, even with the windows rolled down. Bruce doesn't even know why he agreed to come along.

(That's a lie. He does know. But he puts that knowledge aside for now).

Clark is hunched behind the wheel, his large frame even more cramped than Bruce's. Unlike Bruce, he is smiling, gazing out at the landscape as if it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Bruce is forced to admit there's a kind of appeal to it. After the stone and steel canyons of Gotham, the openness of the plains has a sweep to it, a grandeur. The early morning sunlight slants across the low hills like a hand caressing the land, and far off to the west there's a long line of dark clouds, straight as if drawn by a massive ruler.

There are beads of sweat on Bruce's upper lip. He contemplates asking Clark to use his cold breath as an _ersatz_ air conditioner, but he suspects that would be considered cheating, somehow.

A flicker of light shafts through the distant cloud bank, turning it translucent-gray for an instant. The car slows as Clark peers west across the prairie at the darkness massing on the horizon, his smile a private thing that doesn't include Bruce for a moment.

Clark turns left, off the highway and onto a narrow dirt road. Pulling to the side of the road, he stops the car, still gazing to the west.

"Can you feel that?" he asks.

"Feel what? The sweat soaking my Armani shirt?" Bruce grumbles.

Clark closes his eyes. "The storm coming. Can't you feel it in the air?"

And Bruce _can_ , now that Clark mentions it. A prickling anticipation along the hair of his forearms, on the nape of his neck. Like the world is holding its breath in the sweltering silence.

"It won't be here for a while yet," Clark says. "One of the things I love about Kansas is how you can see the storms coming for hours, sometimes for days, building on the horizon. In the heat of summer, to see relief in the distance, to know it was coming."

Bruce can see a long, slow shimmer running across the vast field toward them, grasses bowing before a wind that hasn't reached them yet. They wait in silence, and the shivering gust wraps the car in an exhalation of sun-warmed scent, blowing through the open windows and cooling Bruce's damp brow. He hears a sigh and realizes it was himself.

"The long wait always seemed to make the storm that much better," Clark says softly. "Something so longed-for, so wanted."

The clouds are closer now. Another crackle of light arcs along the storm front, silent and ethereal. Five seconds later the long, low mutter reaches them, a sound as sheer as tearing silk.

Clark's hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes watch the flickering light as if he is looking at a lover. "The clash between heat and cold," he says as another bass rumble trembles through the air. "Friction creating sparks."

A single drop of rain hits the windshield with a sharp, quick sound. There's a breathless pause, and then there's one more. Another. A handful of drops flung against the glass like a challenge.

"Better roll up the windows," Clark points out.

The lightning in the clouds isn't diffuse anymore; a single incandescent fork flashes down to kiss the plain. The crack of thunder isn't a mutter this time, but an imperious _crack_ that fades into a gentle _boom._ Outside, the wind is lashing the grass; it bows before the storm in graceful waves. The rain falls in sheets now, beating a steady tattoo on the roof of the car.

Clark is watching Bruce's face, the eerie light outside washing across his features, refracted by the water on the windshield. Another strike, much nearer: the air itself seems electric, the thunder shudders in Bruce's very flesh. "There's nothing like it in the world," Clark says. "The moment when the storm breaks across you at last."

Bruce responds, but there's another _crackboom_ , light and sound at once, and he can't hear his own voice over the thunder. He was sure he intended to say something sarcastic, something like _Enough with the heavy-handed metaphors, already_ , but the look that flashes across Clark's face, illuminating his features with joy, makes Bruce wonder if he said something else entirely.

Their kiss is a lightning-strike too bright for the senses, the response of Bruce's body a silent thunder that shakes him to the depths.

Clark was right, there's nothing like it in the world: the breaking of the longed-for storm.


End file.
